


Buried, My Girl

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Cunnilingus, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the relative safety of Alexandria, there is no way to hold off tragedy. Rick takes a moment for himself to escape it.</p><p>But with thoughts, with demons, like his—he is never really alone, is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried, My Girl

**Author's Note:**

> ***WARNING WARNING WARNING***
> 
> This fic gets DARK. Really, really dark, in ways that have to do with Beth's "death." Make sure you're ok with that before reading.
> 
> That being said: The not-depressing parts of this fic have two inspirations. First are leiassolo's tags on my [Brick gifset](http://leiassolo.tumblr.com/post/123588959813/bethgreenesgirlgang-brickyl-week-day-3). Second is this [horrific video](http://bethgreenesgirlgang.tumblr.com/post/123678459685/dotsplace-thejennakayshow-dotsplace) of Norman. Blame both of them.
> 
> Also, this is my submission for the fourth day of Brickyl Week, for the prompt /Brick - "Winter Winds" by Mumford and Sons/. So that's where the lyrics come from.

It's been a long day, and on days like these Rick lets his mind wander.

Wander where it shouldn't.

He'd been walking the wall when they came back. Had been paying more attention to the foreman at his side than to the approaching group, until the gates swung open and all was silent.

There is only one reason for a supply run to end in silence.

Daryl and Aaron carried him in on a make-shift stretcher. Derek Ladd. 23 years old. A chemistry major at GW before the world ended. He and his mother survived the virus and fought their way here, to safety.

Rick had to practically wrestle Daryl to the ground to keep him from going to the mother. Daryl'd done enough—he'd gotten the body back, kept the rest of his people safe. He didn't need to face all that grief.

There's a script to it, at this point. Rick knows these demons of Daryl's inside and out. At one point, at the beginning, they had been too strong for Rick to fight. They'd compromise by going together, but it killed Rick, each and every time, to see a new body piled on his friend's shoulders.

That was the beginning. That was then. That was before a blonde head was there to float through the crowd, lean against Daryl's musty locks, lead him away like a stablehand leading a mare. Easy. Effortless. Little more than the touch of her finger and the big man fell apart.

Rick strips his clothes off one by one. It is summer and it doesn't take long. The fabric is stuck to his skin by no more than sweat, and part of him still balks at that—insists on what a waste it is, to use all this water for nothing more than what his own body produces.

Before he turns the tap on, he listens to Carl moving around in the kitchen, singing to Judith where she must perch in her high chair.

 _And my head told my heart_  
_"Let love grow"_  
_But my heart told my head_  
_"This time no_  
_This time no"_

Rick smiles when Carl's voice cracks in the middle of a word, when he clears his throat and continues on. The smile fades as he remembers a sweeter voice in the very same room, singing as she mashed Judith's peas and carrots. Sundress light and airy, skin pink with the beginning of a sunburn from her time in the yard of the preschool; with Daryl, beyond the wall. Hair pulled into a ponytail high on her head. Drops of sweat trickling through the down at the nape of her neck.

Rick turns on the water. He steps beneath it before it warms, and only hisses when the icy chill pelts his back. He turns slowly as the temperature rises, listening to the pitch of the water change and hearing her voice in it, high and clear.

She hadn't made a sound as she died. Not a noise, not a whimper. Not even a thunk as she dropped to the floor, the reverb of Dawn's gun echoed so loudly in that flickering hall.

He remembers how the fluorescents reflected in strips off her blood as it pooled beneath her.

He doesn't remember the blast of Daryl's own gun; just Dawn falling beside her, knocked to the floor like a domino.

It had felt so black and white, that day. There was Family. There was Them.

It wasn't supposed to turn red.

Rick washes himself mechanically. Shampoo, rinse. Conditioner, soap, lathered across his skin. Sliding through his chest hair, balancing on the cliffs of his hips; dripping down to where his cock hangs hot and heavy, tingling under the pelting water as if they were an angel's kisses. Pecking, spreading on his skin. Drowning him in drowsy heat as blonde locks slip through his fingers, as piercing blue eyes look on.

He saw them fucking once. He'd gone to their house to ask Daryl what he thought about expanding the fortifications to the west, and when he knocked and got no answer he walked to the window and peered in. It was hazy through the gauzy curtains and his own shaking skin but he could never mistake the cave of gaping mouths, the slapping back and forth as Daryl loomed over her, drove her upper body into the carpet with his hands on her hands and his hips against her ass, thrusting so hard she must have been bruised by morning.

Rick knows what Beth looks like when she comes.

Rick knows what _Daryl_ looks like when he comes.

Rick knows what it means for two people to live inside each other.

He sighs heavily as he curls his hand around his dick, thrumming hot, hard as a muscle in itself. He faces into the spray. Leans against the tiled wall. Pulses his grip a few times, feels the blood pound and release. Strokes himself, slow, as the thoughts begin to come.

Too much. Not enough. But something he accepts. Welcomes.

Pictures. _Imagines._

Beth spread out across the bed. His bed, any bed. Limbs akimbo, hair tossed like it’s been caught by the wind, strands licking her lips and eyes as they squeeze shut, holding the pressure until she sees stars. Hands fisting and unfisting in the sheets. Trimmed nails making little scraping noises across the cotton. Rick can hear her panting, and her whimpering, and occasionally a whine that builds from her clavicle and rises through her gullet until it hits the air, spreads its wings, sweeps its shadow across the shaggy head moving between her legs.

Rick steps around the bed, silent as a panther, sliding his eyes around her thigh until Daryl comes into view—ear sticking out of his messy hair, sweat beading on his forehead from the heat of her body, her sloppy cunt soaking him as far up as his knife-edge cheekbones. Her slick gives his skin a different kind of glisten than the sweat does; it’s slimier, the light reflecting from it in long strips instead of pinpricks, its texture slathered and uneven as he rubs his cheeks against her thighs, burning her skin with his scruff, letting her feel how he is covered in her, how with a little more work he could drown.

And he works, Rick sees, as he moves far enough around; holds her down high on her thighs as he tortures her with slow strokes of his fat tongue, the muscle broad enough that in one swipe he drags across her entire pussy, tickling the hairs in the crease of her thighs that she can’t easily reach with a razor. There is a few days growth on the rest of her, about as much as Daryl is scratching against her thighs, and Rick imagines what she feels like beneath his tongue—the sharp prickles as he licks against the grain, the glide as he licks with it, and always the silk beneath—silk he chases as he narrows his tongue, delving between her lips, moving his elbow to rest against her hipbone so his fingers are free to spread her pussy, allow him access to all the musky creases.

Rick wants to help. He wants to step forward with his own hands and mouth, press her thighs as wide as they will go, kiss the inside of her knee as Daryl makes her groan below. He wants to nudge at Daryl with his shoulder, share a grin with the now black-eyed man as he settles down beside him, waits for him to pull back just enough for Rick to dive in.

Lick up the slick dripping from her cunt. Feel the texture of the different parts of her pussy—the smooth labia, the coarser skin between her lips, the spongy flesh around her entrance that chases his teasing tongue, that he catches between gentle teeth to make her jump.

And if Daryl presses himself forward—pushing her legs impossibly wide, wide until she winces yet arches into the pain because now there are two mouths on her pussy, Daryl by her clit and Rick down below, teasing her perineum as Daryl's obscene slurps echo in his ear—if they move at the same time; move together, meet in the middle at her weeping opening, if their tongues twist and twine as they fight to be the first to taste her walls, if they at last spread her with their fingers so they can slip in alongside, faces stuck together by the very juices they bathe in—it would be alright. That would be fine. The taste of Beth's pussy and Daryl's mouth and his eyes so close as Rick comes untouched.

But Rick does not step forward, for this is not his story. And he watches as if he were in someone else's fantasy as Beth sinks both hands into Daryl's hair, sets her feet on his shoulders as she arches her back and grinds her clit against his nose. Daryl shoves at her, almost angrily, and she squeaks as he folds her in half, pressing her knees to the bed beside her ears until her cunt and her asshole wink at Rick in desperate need. Beth curls her hands around the back of her calves, but Daryl does not seem to trust her; he keeps his hands rough and veined and white-knuckle curled just above the crease of her knees as he ducks down below, rolls his tongue and slides it inside her stretched cunt.

She whimpers like there's a bird warbling inside her, biting her lip and stretching her neck and turning towards Rick for her scars to flash, the slashes on her cheek, the ragged circle of her brow.

And her eyes open. And they look at him. And she convulses as gore splatters out the back of her head.

* * *

Rick feels the shower like hot drops of blood as he hunches over himself, hand fisting in a blur, cum pumping in spurts against the tiled wall.

He drops to his knees, panting and gulping, hand scrabbling across the wet floor and wall until he finds the knob and shuts the water. He rests there for a moment, two, before dropping backwards, landing on his ass with a groan as he tilts his head against the wall, closes his eyes.

Carl has stopped singing, but Rick can hear Judith babbling. He imagines her on the floor with her toys, knocking trucks together, squealing as if they've ignited a spark. Imagines her with Lori's eyes, in Beth's hands. Imagines Judith covered in her own blood, hot and dripping.

Rick clenches his fists at his sides. Hears Beth's voice, in his head. Hears Daryl answer her. Hears the sound of a bedroom door, a cell door, a shallow grave, swinging shut between them.

He opens his eyes. His come is there, light reflecting in strips. He watches the edges dry to a crisp. 

To a scab.

To a scar.

* * *

_Let love grow?_ she asks.

 _This time no,_ he thinks.

 

_This time no._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write Rick masturbating to Beth in the shower, how did it end up like this, HOW DID IT END UP LIKE THIS???


End file.
